


if you cut me, i'll bleed antifreeze

by saturnsage



Series: Industrialized Violence [1]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Tags Will Be Added Within Works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 19:25:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17883758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturnsage/pseuds/saturnsage
Summary: dead men tell no tales, but chen's not dead yet





	if you cut me, i'll bleed antifreeze

**Author's Note:**

> *strums my electric guitar and cries*

There was everything there that could have ruined him: guns and knives and bullets, but in the end what killed him off were his own two feet and the gravity of the earth pulling him down. 

  
  
In the end what killed her off was her own strength.

  
  
It’s been a week now, and the irony of it all still cackles her old songs to those who are left.

  
  
Chen’s screwing the gears he wears for this kind of war -the cold one, the one that no one ever wins- and the light steel fingertips that replaces the iron ones feel naked. Gloveless. There are no shields, no hidden compartments, just thumbprints, and barely enough strength to snap off a neck. For each screw he tightens, there’s a villain out there who’ll slip away from him yet. He does not do well in wars he can’t touch, in crimes he can’t see. 

 

Reason number three. (There’s more.)

 

 But people never like the actual look of his work (call it cowardice, call it ignorance, whichever bites harder) and if the scratches on his gear match the scars on whatever flesh he may have left, those very same people tend to get skittish. Make science look pretty, instead of what godlessness it eats in. And there’s no hiding the scars he’s got, because there’s no hiding age. There’s no hiding the fact that all his bones aren’t his own, but rather factory-made, guaranteed to last him a lifetime. 

  
  
Despite these shortcomings, he’s still up in line to walk up in front of a mourning crowd, and make a speech as to why these two heroes’ (he has to laugh) deaths were simply an honorable stepping stone designed to progress everyone’s hopes and dreams.

  
  
He’s in HQ. Nobody really checks up on him, since there’s no one really left who would. 

  
  
Problem number two. (Everyone who worked here is either out of commission, in hiding, dead, or on the other side of the law.)

  
  
The lucky ones, the outliers of the equation, they’re the only ones who’re left. 

  
  
Chen himself, because he’s easily broken and easily rebuilt again. Those with a one-track mind tend to stay alive longer, since they don’t consider many other options. 

  
  
And Ricardo Ortega, because that bastard not only manages to survive, but thrive in a life that was handed to him without ceremony. Being so naturally good is hard to think about, and it’s hell of a lot harder to fight. It would be like trying to burn down the general sense of hope itself. You can’t, and you’ll never.

  
  
Right? 

  
  
Problem number one. (He’s not doing as well as Chen thought he would.)   
  
______

  
  
Ortega already stands in place, all military backbone and hard profile, like he’s come straight from the army. Chen’s never seen him like this outside of a battle, where he’d let the currents in his system crack under his jawline, where he’d let the storms stay inside and make him that more unpredictable. 

  
  
Chen slips into the empty space next to him, and stuffs the urge to hold his shoulder down to something thats just a small wanting. A small wanting among thousands of other small wantings. All of them pressed down and dampened. 

  
  
There’s no telepath dampeners on him. It’s a little easier on his head. 

  
  
A sideways glance shows that Ortega doesn’t share in the clear-headedness: whenever he starts to shut in the electricity, it makes him shut down in the process. He looks on edge, exhausted, and his eyes gleam in an unhealthy manner. He hasn’t shaved. He keeps unclenching and clenching his fists. He looks like he does on his worse fights. 

  
  
And it’s a fight here, isn’t it? It’s a fight neither of them are equipped to handle, no matter how many times they’ve done this before. 

  
  
Chen decides not to say anything, and looks toward the giant mountain of flowers that surround a small pedestal and two photographs. One photo is Sidestep, decked out in  their suit, because they never took a picture out of it. The second is Anathema, smiling brightly and looking very much alive in the photo. Her hair is braided, and  her expression looks like she’s halfway to breaking out in laughter. 

  
  
Chen’s throat clenches, and he swallows it down. So another one of them died. It’ll just be another box he’ll tick off in his list. It’s just another grave marker he’ll visit when he’s making the rounds. 

  
  
There are no caskets, because there are no bodies. 

  
  
The crowd is eerily silent, with no cameras present that are unauthorized and very few journalists allowed in. Hundreds of people stand in the arena, and the crowd is eerily silent.

  
  
A bell rings. Ortega doesn’t notice, continues to stare at nothing. Chen nudges him gently with his elbow, and stifles the urge to wince from the electric shock he gets. It’s a wake up call for the both of them, albeit in different ways. 

  
  
Ortega stiffens up, and flicks his gaze right at Chen, bewildered and glossed.  
  
  
A pang of sympathy, another feeling to be laid down to rest. Chen’s gaze softens at the sorry display, and he tilts his head toward the stage for encouragement. “You’re up, Marshal,” He says, quietly. No one but the two of them hear the words. “Come on.” 

  
  
It takes longer than it should for Ortega to process everything when he’s finally done zoning out. He soaks in his surroundings like he’s only just seen them; the people, the flowers, the stage. The photographs. 

  
  
Problem number one. (He’s not doing well at all.) 

  
  
“Oh,” A mechanical response. It would put Chen’s commands to the motherboard to shame. “Right, yeah.” 

  
  
To an outsider or a journalist, Ortega’s walk toward the stage would look grim, but measured. Sad, but not too sad. The determination to carry on and step over his peers broken bodies outshining any grief he may have. It’ll be a great front cover image for the papers, the gossip rags and the blogs.

  
  
To Chen, it looks like someones dragging him there by a noose. Another anchor to be added on his necklace of  _‘I had no say in this.’_

  
  
When Ortega stands in front of the microphone and looks out to something that could be the crowd, Chen grows immeasurably glad that there are very few cameras. He grows immeasurably glad that he can change the settings for his eyesight, because if he ever has to see Ortega holding himself up with both hands on that pedestal again-

  
  
Problem number one. (He might make it, he might not.)

  
  
If he ever sees Ortega give up like this again, then everything would be for nothing.There’s nothing comforting about someone waving a white flag when you’re stuck in the same ditch.

  
  
Chen looks to the picture of Anathema and Sidestep once more. Anathema looks sweet and young and powerful, because she was sweet and young, and she was nothing if not powerful He’ll miss her. Her family will miss her. Everyone will.

  
He’s seen Sidestep’s face out of his mask. It wouldn’t have looked as nice compared to Anathema, because Sidestep always looked like he had one too many things weighing him down.

  
  
He was young too, though. No more than twenty-five, if he remembers correctly.  Park never acted like it, but he was still young. 

  
  
Just another tick off the checklist of ‘ _how many of those I have known who are now gone’._

 __  
  
Yet again, he’s reminded that he’s not wearing any telepathic dampeners, and that his head feels less sore thanks to it. He’s not in need to look back to make sure Sidestep was doing what he was supposed to, and that he wasn’t being brain-washed into whatever Sidestep was thinking about. 

  
  
For a week, he’s kept his paranoia at a minimum. It’s so good to not worry about that he almost forgets the price was to see the smudge on the ground hundreds of floors down. 

  
  
Reason number three. (A liability. An unforeseen disaster.)  
  
___

  
The funeral ends in a sour note, and more sour still is how Ortega’s an absolutely plastered, limp mess, and Chen’s carrying him to the barracks. Whatever alcohol he may have snuck in is gone now, leaving nothing but a man who’s too heavy for his own good. It doesn’t help that the lights are off, and the faint buzz of the hallway sounds like an echo. Of who, or what, it’ll be up to imagination soon enough.

  
  
Chen could usually handle carrying someone of his weight, but Ortega is still conscious, and every time Chen shifts, there’s static that threatens to mess up the mainframe of his wiring, so yes, he’s a little pissed off. He’s pissed off and he’s tired and he wants nothing but everything, and the guy who causes seventy percent of his distress is currently more wasted than the people he used to know back in the army.

  
  
“Nice job beating up a civilian, Ricardo.” He snarks, and the man in his arms blinks blearily at nothing, his expression dark.  “You even got him hospitalized.” 

  
  
“ ‘Mmm quittin’,”  Ortega answers, slurred and hoarse and fizzled, “ ‘Can’t…can’t stand this fuckin’  place anymore.” 

  
  
Problem number one. (Ricardo. Should’ve known he wouldn’t make it.)

  
  
“You’re drunk.” He says, instead. 

  
  
“Nnnnot enough…” 

  
  
(He’s been around the longest, though.)

  
  
“I’m taking you to bed.” 

  
  
That leaves Ortega silent. There’s a reason Ortega doesn’t get angry much. Shutting down and shutting up causes too much inner restlessness, which leads him towards things he usually wouldn’t do. Having to store away an entire city’s worth of electricity in a man that weighs around two hundred something is too much pressure, too many uncalculated movements. 

  
  
It’s proof that this took him out more than it usually does.

  
  
When Chen finally manages to stumble all the way to Ortega’s rooms and open the door, it results in nearly throwing Ortega down on his bunk like a sack of rice. The man in question sits limply and leans on the bed-frame, shoes still on and eyes still open. 

  
  
“Get some rest. You’re gonna need it.” Chen says, as a goodnight. 

  
  
Ortega closes his eyes. His breath hitches, and he looks wrecked. “Dead. They’re dead,” He croaks out. “Anathema, J-“ Another hiccup of breath. “Jie-Sun, they’re both dead.” 

  
  
It’s kind of distressing to see a drunk Ortega spiraling into another bout of grief and guilt, so Chen just sits down in a chair next to the bed and sighs, not unkindly. “Yes.” He whispers. “I know.” 

  
  
“God, I loved them so much, I. It. I don’t-“ 

 

  
“Ricardo, I know.” 

  
  
“She-she didn’t deservve that, she was so- was so-“ 

  
  
“Yes.” 

  
“I loved him, I. I never-I..and, and-“

  
  
“…I know.” 

  
  
Ortega turns quiet, but it’s strained and defeated.  That’s when Chen gets up, walks out the door, and leaves him alone.

  
  
It’s just the two of them now, and the two of them will have to work on making sure they each stay intact. 

  
  
The halls are devoid of anyone but him, because all the employees are gone, and it’s just the two of them left. 

  
  
That’s another thing to be bitter about thanks to Park, Chen thinks. Jie-Sun Park wasn’t supposed to die. Now look where he is, and where he dragged Anathema with, and what he turned Ricardo into.

  
  
Jie-Sun Park wasn’t supposed to die. 

  
  
The first traces of guilt settle in his gut, and Chen lets them stay.

  
 ___

  
In the morning after that Ricardo Ortega, more known as Marshall Charge, with more awards on his belt than previously recorded, and with one of the longest records of working here, resigned his position and retired to living in an apartment the opposite side of the city. 

  
  
And because no one was left, they promoted Wei Chen, named Steel, into becoming the Marshall of the Rangers of Los Diablos.   
  
___

  
  
The day he got promoted, he moved out of the bunks in HQ and rented out an apartment a thirty minutes walk away from work. If he was going to live alone, he might as well live in a place that didn’t remind him how many he had lost.

  
___

  
  
It’s in the loneliness of it all that he started putting two and two together. It’s in the heartache of it all that he realized there were more problems to solve than there weren’t. (It’s alright, though. After all, he was designed and built to solve problems. These are just an extension of ones he’s dealt with before.)

  
  
Problem: Ricardo isn’t doing well, and he’s not within arm’s reach for Chen to be able to help in in his own, unassuming way. 

  
  
Problem: As of right now, he’s the only Ranger. That won’t bode well for the well-being of the city. 

  
  
Problem: Both Anathema and Sidestep are dead, and both of them shouldn’t be. 

  
  
Problem: Anathema’s family was granted permission to keep her ashes. Sidestep’s ashes weren’t released.

  
  
It’s not that he didn’t like Park, it’s just that he didn’t trust Park. Jie-Sun Park was too much of a wild-card to predict what he’ll do next, and although he seemed to care about others to the point of forgetting himself at times, that all could have just been an elaborate mind trick set against everyone. 

  
  
But, he wasn’t alpha-level. Chen made sure to wear the dampeners any given moment, and Ortega is immune. Anathema was nice to Park, but that’s because Anathema was nice to everyone. She didn’t show any particular favoritism, or any red flags.

   
  
So, despite how much of an inconvenience Park was, he still has the right to be mourned. 

  
  
It could be some sort of closure. Just calling the crematorium, asking for the ashes, and dumping it wherever. He doesn’t know what to do with the ashes exactly, but he’ll figure it out. It’s the loneliness of it all that makes him think of it all. The guns, the bullets, the knives and the broken bones. The pressing dangers, the whirring of the dampeners and the  **Let It In And Let It In And Let It Go And Let You Go, You Poor Machine.**  

  
****  
Problem; Anathema died by burning herself using herself, while in the midst of those near-godless whispers. Sidestep died after everything was finished. He had been the one to have picked the Heartbreak up, and to put on the first telepath numbing on the girls head, and after, and he told the rest what to do as Steel was drowning in the **Let You Go and Let It Go, You Poor Machine, You Ruined Thing.**

  
  
Problem: After everything, after the girl was tied down and declared safe. That’s when you jumped off. Why? 

  
  
**Let Me In And Let Me Go And Choke, You Decayed Man.**

**  
**  
Chen doesn’t like unsolved problems. He’ll find the remnants of Sidestep’s body, and that will be that. A check to put down on his list of ‘Things I should have done sooner’.The traces of guilt begin to grow. Chen lets them.  
  
  
___

  
Sitting on Ortega’s old chair, in his new office isn’t as much of a challenge than he would have suspected. Ortega may have spent a healthy amount of time in this room, but never once did he deign to make it a room that resembled him. If anything, it had more traces of Marshal Hood than Marshal Charge. 

  
  
It’s been a week now, and the wrongness makes itself more and more known. 

  
  
He’s gone through two pens already, and he’s using the third one to finish signing papers concerning the casualties caused by the Heartbreak incident. A hefty amount of money, a hefty amount of apologies, a hefty amount of sworn silences. 

  
  
No one’s allowed to talk about the Heartbreak. It’s easy for them to agree, because no one wants to. The phone on Ortega’s-his- desk rings. Chen gladly drops the papers and pen to pick it up.

  
  
“Marshall Steel,” Says the receptionist, voice cool and professional. “It’s Charge. He’s here on accounts on applying to work here again.”

  
  
 Well. 

  
  
Problem number one. (He’s back? Here? Someone came back to this line of work?)

  
  
Chen always knew Ortega could be restless, and that he’d sworn his life into this branch of government, but this time felt so different from the rest. It was a foolish thought, but a thought nonetheless. A rancid ‘ _He’s just as dead as the rest, him being your favorite, your longest, isn’t going to stop anything._ ’ A spoiled ‘ _The storm he barely has a hold of finally bit out of his control.’_

 __  
  
Charge never did get knocked out of a fight for too long, though. It’s a war. This is a war, and Charge has never stayed out of the front lines for too long.

  
  
“Send him inside, obviously he’s hired.” 

  
  
“But, sir-“

  
  
“I’ll deal with the specifics later, just hurry him in.” 

  
  
He hangs up, and leans back on his chair, papers all but forgotten. 

  
  
He thought Ortega was gone for good, because losing someone you love hurts like a snake-bite. After that display of total break-down, it’s hard to imagine someone who wouldn’t let that happen in the first place come back from it later on. 

  
  
A part of him still hoped Ortega would come back, because thats what Ortega always does, right? Come back, new and energetic as ever, ready to be another beacon of good and whatever other thing he can hold in.  Instead of being alone, it’ll be the two of them until Chen figures out how to call in more heroes that would join the Rangers. That, they can do. That, they can handle. Sitting in a bomb shelter a little while longer.

   
  
When the knock comes in on the door, Chen gets up from his desk, and as soon as he opens it and sees Ortega, tall and bright and smiling, he hugs him. 

  
  
“Woah! Okay, wasn’t expecting that,” Ortega says in huffed surprise, smile heard from his voice. He’s already hugging back. 

  
  
It’s a mountain full of small wantings being laid flat with the palm of a hand. 

  
  
Chen says nothing, and then lets him go. “Welcome back,” He says softly. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.” 

  
  
Ortega looks only a little better than he did two-three weeks ago. He’s still mourning. Alright. Give him time. “Yeah, I know. That’s why I came back.” 

  
  
Chen sighs, and walks back to the desk. “I’m glad you did, right choice or not.”

  
  
“I can’t just sit still, apparently. I’ve got to do something, or i’ll go insane.” 

  
  
Chen will ignore that for now, and store it for a different time.

  
  
“Yes, that’s something that would concern you. Unfortunately, you’re not going to be the Marshal, so you’ll need a new office.”

  
  
“Oh! Right, yeah, I get it.” 

  
  
Ortega joins Chen by sitting on the desk counter, shoulders sagging a bit, but his face is determined. Alright, give him time. Give them both time.

  
  
“Things are going to be changing, Ricardo.” Chen says, as a warning.

  
  
The smile thins, and the shoulders stay slumped. “I know. That’s why I’m here.” His voice is more rough than Chen remembers. 

  
Alright.  
___

  
It’s not easy. But there’s the two of them.   
  
___

  
  
Another week after that, when Ricardo’s out in patrol, and when no-one’s looking, Chen calls up the crematorium that received both Anathema and Sidestep.

  
  
He told Ricardo that they both have to move on and carry forward, and Ricardo laughed an ugly laugh, and said “ _Maybe. I don’t know. It’s…it’s just that Jie-Sun doesn’t feel dead to me, you know? It feels like I could see him again in any minute.”_

  
  
Reason number two. (Sidestep doesn’t die easily.)

  
  
The phone rings, and a woman picks up. Chen explains who he is and the purpose of his call. Asks to somehow, if it were possible, retrieve the ashes of Jie-Sun Park? 

  
  
The woman falls silent for one minute, two. 

  
  
“Sir,” She says, hesitant. “We never burned Sidestep’s body.” 

  
  
Reason number three. Reason number two and problem number five and problem and reason and reason and problem and ‘I _t feels like I could see him again in any minute_ ’ and  **Let Me Go And Let Me In And Choke And Go.**


End file.
